Stepdown
by telemetries
Summary: Alfred feels he is right, no matter what anyone says. And even Ivan can't deter him. One-shot, strong language. Some gay if you squint.


**Stepdown**

Alfred is ankle-deep in snow, and he's used to it by now. He stares at the sky, pale and steel gray, and not even the twisted multicoloured rooftops and swishing blue waters, stark against the dreary atmosphere, can deter him from feeling a sense of emptiness -- heaviness.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Ivan's voice just makes everything worse, but Alfred puffs his chest up, as well as his pride; he is_ America_, goddammit. He was supposed to be brave, and be the hero. He was supposed to stare fear in the face and knock all of its teeth out and lick the blood from his knuckles with sheer joy. But Alfred knows that he isn't that brave around Ivan -- _especially_ around Ivan -- and so he doesn't bother pretending anymore. He lets his pride deflate, but only a little bit. He needs to be able to assert himself when necessary -- and even when it wasn't necessary.

"Moscow is gorgeous. Although Vladivostok is still worth visiting. It has not changed much," Ivan continues, "except for the air. It's unhealthy."

"Pollution," Alfred mutters. "We have that problem too."

Ivan smiles, his face seemingly kind, but Alfred looks twice although he was taught not to and he notices Ivan's eyes carry a feral look to them. He looks away and shuffles his feet, his boots flecked with snow and a bit of mud. The sky looks like faded metal, and Alfred feels that emptiness grow within him. He isn't sure why he's here, he doesn't want to be here, but he's here and so is Ivan, in his long tan coat and cream-white scarf, that Soviet medal glinting although it wasn't sunny. Alfred chewed the inside of his cheek.

"Why don't you take that damn thing off," Alfred spits. "The Soviet Union is _done_."

Ivan smiles, and Alfred's hand almost immediately goes towards his gun, tucked deep in his jacket. Ivan is in his face in two seconds flat, however, and Alfred doesn't have time to try and defend himself.

"Is it?" he whispers calmly. "Comrade, nothing is done just because _you_ say it is."

His hands brush Alfred's cheeks, and his face is entirely too close. Alfred stares at Ivan's eyes, their intense ferocity boring into him. He gulps, then he pushes Ivan back and smirks.

"Shut the fuck up," he says. "I know what I'm talking about." He pauses, then looks away.

"Why aren't _you_ over there?" Alfred asks suddenly, nastily. "Since you're such a badass."

Ivan smirks. "My decision remains firm, Alfred. I will not enter the war. It's not our war to fight."

Alfred stares at the sky, loathing Ivan's neverending self-determination. Alfred wondered if his own self-determination meant anything as well, but then again, comparing himself to Ivan was a bad idea in itself. His own country was falling apart, and Alfred hadn't felt any kind of pride since Reagan stepped in and told Gorbachev to tear down the goddamned wall, but Gorbachev was going to tear the goddamned wall down anyway so there was no point in feeling too proud about that moment.

"It's okay to feel how you do," Ivan said quietly now. "I don't blame you in the slightest. I'd be weary of a country like yours as well."

Alfred said absolutely nothing. Yes, he was weary, and admittedly he was tired. So. _Tired. _And he felt like nothing was getting done. 2004, and they were still fighting in Iraq.

_It's a noble cause. Don't be ashamed of this. Fight it! Fight them_.

But it didn't feel so noble anymore, quite honestly, and Alfred was tired of being looked at as though he were the bad guy. Even his own brother was distant with him these days, and Arthur just didn't like him anymore, flat out. Alfred was good at pretending he didn't care, and perhaps he really didn't care at all, but his subconscious suggested that he might. Just a little.

"The conflict undermines the war," Ivan quietly says now. "You must get out of there. You have to."

Alfred stares at him, and a hearty, nasty smirk spreads across his thin face.

"Not just yet," he says, and he turns to leave.

Tomorrow, he'll sit in his truck. He'll listen to Neil Young with his feet propped up on the dashboard. He'll eat a burger and enjoy himself, and try as hard as he can to ignore the disappointment and anger of every other nation around him, and pretend that Ivan isn't right, wasn't right, was never right to begin with. And the lies feel so much better than the truth.

Alfred smiles to himself with this thought, ignoring Ivan's cold stare, one that threatens to penetrate his very bones and break them with all of his might.


End file.
